The Actor
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: Eisenheim spends the months following Sophie's supposed death in grief and despair. But some of his misery may not be entirely an act.


**Hello!**

**I usually write fics for The Hobbit and Phantom of the Opera, but occasionally I like to go outside my norm and do little oneshots for various other things I enjoy. **

**I just watched The Illusionist a couple of nights ago and realized what an underrated movie it is. It's the kind of movie you have to watch more than once to catch all the little subtle details. I like those. They're fun. **

**And now I present to you...a tale of angst, drama, and not a small amount of sadness. **

**I hope. **

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He was once known as Eisenheim the Illusionist, the greatest stage magician in all of Vienna—and quite possibly in all the world as well. His shows drew crowds of people to see his fantastic illusions. No one but him would ever find out his secrets, he liked to keep it that way. Not even his manager knew. He worked, for the most part, without assistance. Certainly, he had men to bring props to the stage, but unlike other magicians, he had no beautiful women in spangled costumes there with him to serve as victims for common tricks of prestidigitation and legerdemain. Those tricks he had given up long, long ago.

Eisenheim was the sole focus in all his shows. The audience was captive from the moment he spoke. They watched him pace the floor, his words hanging from the air like delicate raindrops from the leaf of a flower before descending gently, and they remained that way—silent, speechless—until his performance was over and with a simple few words he released them from his magic spell. No other performer held the kind of gravitas that he did; he did not rely on gimmicks. It was not uncommon for him to ponder the mysteries of the human psyche while the audience remained captivated—indeed the thought had crossed his mind more than once that the women found him more handsome than interesting, and would have listened to anything he said if it was spoken in the soft, gentle voice he used for his performances. As long as people found him personable, that was all that mattered to him. His manager cared more about the number of seats sold, but for Eisenheim, it was more than that…it was merely what he loved, what he tried to fill the strange void in his life with, though he had long since forgotten why.

Until that night, when he saw her. She was with the crown prince. He volunteered her. But it was not until she reached the stage that he saw who she was. In an instant he was fighting to maintain his composure, so surprised was he that they should meet again.

"Do you know me?" he asked warily. He knew it was her, who else could it be? The question was, did she remember him? She assured him that she did not.

"You're quite certain that we've never met before?"

"Yes, of course." she replied

"_Perhaps I'll make you disappear,"_ he said to her later that evening. He knew that he should not have spoken. After all, it was his failure to her that led to his becoming what he was today. He could not make them disappear all those years ago when they were children, so he vowed to go above and beyond. He vowed to become not just a magician, but an _illusionist_. And so it should have remained. But something deep inside told him otherwise.

* * *

The Duchess von Teschen was dead. Newspaper headlines screamed it all across the country. Some went so far as to say she was murdered by Crown Prince Leopold, her intended. It was rumored that the fight occurred because she had wanted another man.

Eisenheim smiled sadly at the news over his morning coffee. His beloved Sophie was gone. But at least he could take solace in the fact that she was in a place where Leopold could no longer harm her. She was safe.

However, he must not dwell on it too long. No one must know how he truly felt about her. He had a sneaking suspicion that pig of a police inspector Uhl had caught on from the start. He had been poking and prodding ever since, trying to coax some bit of information, some confession that Eisenheim would not give him.

And so it was that Eisenheim the Illusionist became Eisenheim the actor. He was rarely seen, and when he was it was with bent head and a forlorn expression. Some speculated that he had taken to drinking, for he often wore a look of exhaustion, bloodshot eyes and all. His exhaustion was not entirely false. Many a night he lay awake worrying, and thinking. The image of Sophie's pale, dead face swam before his eyes each time he closed them. The image was too much for him to bear, and many times he would open his eyes only to find them brimming. She was not dead, she could not be dead.

Eisenheim, the grieving lover, bought a theater and began a new sort of magic. He made people believe that he could raise the dead. When word first got out of his reemergence into the performing business, naturally, people flocked to see him. The man had lived like a hermit for the past few months, and the public was eager to see what spectacles and wonders he had cooked up. But they also knew of his grief, of his involvement in the Duchess's murder investigation. It had hardly been secret—thanks in no small part to Inspector Uhl, whose only goal was to remain in the Crown Prince's favor and be granted a position of honor.

Some left the theater in droves that first night, others stayed behind and soon he had gained an even bigger, almost _devout _following of people who believed he truly had otherworldly powers. There were some who claimed that the raven-haired magic man had sold his soul to Lucifer, others clung to the conviction that his was a gift from above. Whatever the case, he was whispered about whenever he passed by anyone who knew him on the street.

And it pained him so, to know that he had sparked in these trusting people such a deep-seated conviction and a bizarre allegiance, for he could not even fool himself anymore. Every move he made, every decision, was watched closely. One false move and he could well end up behind bars, so far from the life for which he yearned so dearly. It took nearly all of his remaining strength to keep up the veneer of calm for which he was well known on stage in order to address them that night outside on the balcony of the police station.

"What have I done?" he muttered to himself that night, collapsing into a chair and heaving for breath. How many more months, or years even, must he endure such irrepressible melancholy? Everything was going wrong…and it was beginning to show, twisting the face of the young man into an expression of such agony that aged him considerably. He retired to bed with eyes red-rimmed with sorrow.

No peace came for Eisenheim as the days and nights dragged on. Each day he was hounded and questioned by the authorities, each night he sweated under the limelight to produce ever more fantastic illusions to make the audience gasp and shout. But he did not hear them, nor did he notice the police who were now in regular attendance.

_"Do not raise her again,"_ Uhl had warned. But he had to. One last time. Someone was here who she needed to see.

"Who murdered you?" someone shouted from the audience.

"Someone…here." came her whispered reply. The audience was roused to a frenzy an so did not notice her reach out to the man on stage who reached out for her in turn.

The police entered and began to drag people away. A disturbance of the peace of this level would not be tolerated. Eisenheim, everyone was sure, was bent on overthrowing the monarchy, on seeing Leopold in prison.

Uhl strode to the front of the stage to announce Eisenheim's arrest. It was at that very moment that Eisenheim's last will gave out, and he faded from his own mind. It was the moment when Eisenheim the Illusionist, the actor, the performer, disappeared forever. He was now nothing but a memory.

And it was elsewhere, later, far away in the country that Edward the man came into existence.

At last.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Reviews appreciated!**


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